The lady lifts up her dress to a shocking height, almost to knee level, feints one way with one foot and then drives the other deep into the skeleton’s crotch. Her opponent’s entire hipbone shatters and it falls into a heap on the floor.
“Excellent, Mrs. Hawkins! Tender regions be gone!”
But the smile on her face doesn’t last long. As she turns, she spots a tall, dark-haired boy watching from the lab doorway. Her face turns crimson as she drops her dress.
“Sherlock!” exclaims Bell. “May I introduce Mrs. Hawkins.”
“I … I was assaulted in Soho Square,” she explains, “or nearly so. This kind old gentleman came to my rescue. He … knocked the man unconscious.”
“Merely doing what anyone would do.” “He is teaching me how to defend myself.” The boy has seen the alchemist hard at this sort of endeavor before, but never with a pupil. It is the defensive art of something Bell calls Bellitsu, which he has often invited Sherlock to learn. The boy-apprentice has always politely declined, but lately has been wondering if he should at least give it a try. Feeling the Grimsby-inflicted bruises on his face (which he can’t hide as he stands there), he thinks of how helpful it might be to become the master of such an art. “I once knew a customer, boils I believe he had,” the apothecary explained the first time this subject surfaced, “who spent two decades working as an engineer in the oriental country of Japan. There he learned the ancient Far Eastern secrets of fighting, grappling, and striking – martial arts – more specifically jujutsu and judo. Always interested in physical activity and called upon to visit patients in neighborhoods of less than salubrious variety, I was intrigued. Once he was well, I asked him to teach me his secrets. We spent many days in a local gymnasium beating the stuffing out of each other. It was grand! To these two Japanese arts, I melded the Swiss craft of stick-fighting and England’s own gentlemanly sport of pugilism to create the alloy I call … Bellitsu! It is adaptable to any situation: the use of the cane or umbrella at just beyond arms’ length, boxing in slightly nearer, and the oriental arts for combat at close quarters!”
Mrs. Hawkins reaches into the thick folds of her mauve-colored dress and takes out her coin purse. She snaps it open.
“No, no,” says Bell, holding up a hand.
“But I must pay you.”
“No, you must not. It was my pleasure, especially should what you have learned from your humble servant allow you to defend yourself with vigor some future day on the streets of this fair city.”
“Sir,” says Sherlock, “perhaps you should let …”
“Your face!” exclaims the old man, really looking at the boy for the first time.
Bell quickly and kindly ushers the woman from the shop, still refusing the money, and scurries back into the lab.
The old man gapes at the boy, then starts pacing, looking back at him from time to time. “You must reveal all to me!” he shouts, his stringy white hair flying and his spectacles almost falling off that bulbous red-tip at the end of his nose, as he shakes his head. “You are most evidently in growing danger!”
“I have another problem,” confesses Sherlock. There is no one he can speak to who is wiser than this old man. If anyone can come to Sherlock’s aid, he can. “I need your help.”
A smile spreads across Bell’s face.
“We shall concoct a solution!” he cries, then pauses. “Always minding what I said about having the Force with you. We shall plan nothing reckless!”
The apothecary listens carefully as Sherlock explains his situation. Then he drops dramatically into a flea-bitten old armchair in which he likes to ponder medical problems. His head sinks down onto his chest and his eyes appear to roll up into his head. But within minutes he has sprung to his feet again.
“We shall disguise you as Sigerson Bell!” he exclaims.
“We will do what?” asks Sherlock.
“You and I are about the same height, my boy. I am stooped, caused by the calcification of the lumbar vertebrae and lack of proper exercising of the latissimus dorsi muscles at the appropriate age.”
He stops to ponder this thought for a moment and appears to slip into the contemplation of long-gone activities.
“Sir?”
Bell and his brain jump back into the summer of 1867.
“Yes!” he exclaims. “Yes! Yourself in the character of one Sigerson Bell Esquire. Here we go!”
He turns and climbs his spiral staircase. Soon Sherlock hears all sorts of noise emanating from above: pots and pans appear to be rattling, heavy cases thumping on the floor, apparently the sound of glass shattering … Sherlock even thinks he hears some sort of animal growl. A few moments later Bell thuds down the stairs carrying more things in his hands, on his head, and even expertly balanced on his thighs than a dray horse could carry in a wagon. He deposits them all with a crash on the floor in front of the boy.
“Here we are!” he shouts. “Where shall we begin? I am considering not only dressing you in an exact replica of what I would wear for an evening’s consultation, but also designing a new nose for you to match mine and …”
“Sir?” interrupts Sherlock.
“Yes, my boy?”
“I think we need to simplify. Whomever might follow me will be doing so from a distance. He will be identifying me simply by my clothing. I doubt there is a need for the creation of an entirely new nose.”
“Ah!” says Bell, fingering his own substantial, red-tipped proboscis. He looks disappointed. “I suppose you are correct.”
He reaches in amongst the pile of clothing and pulls out three items: a dusty, green greatcoat very much like the one he wears to see patients, an older version of his red fez, and a battered black medical bag.
“How about these rags?”
“Perfect,” smiles Sherlock.
He will leave in a few hours. They spend the day together, trying to work. But it is difficult for either of them to concentrate. They are waiting for the sun to set. As it finally grows dark inside, Bell rushes around lighting gas lamps on the walls and a few candles on tables, muttering to himself about exactly how the clothes will be placed on Sherlock and little touches he might add. Meanwhile, the boy has slumped down into the arm chair, his fingertips playing on each other, deep in thought.
The apothecary can’t wait any longer.
“Are your ready, Master Holmes?” he asks, looking even more frenetic and nervous than usual.
Sherlock stands up. As he does, he realizes that his hands are even sweatier than they should be in this terrible heat wave.
Bell retrieves the coat, the hat, and the medical bag, placing the first around the boy’s shoulders, the second on his head, and handing him the last. Then he fusses with all three: adjusting the hat many times, trying different angles, wondering for brief silent moments about how he wears the same, lifting the coat’s collar up to hide the boy’s hair, smoothing it down, turning the handbag one way and then another in Sherlock’s grip. Finally, the boy steps away from him.
“I think I am fine, sir,” he says quietly.
“Well,” says Bell. “Well.” For an instant it seems as though he is going to hug the boy for he can see by the flushed young face that fear is growing in him by the second.
“You don’t need to go, Master Holmes, certainly not.”
“Yes I do, sir, if I may say so.”
Bell wags a finger at him.
“You shall only observe from a distance.”
“Yes sir.”
“Any sign of danger, any sign that you are being followed and you are to immediately retreat.”
Sherlock turns to go, but Bell stops him.
“I have two more items for you. First, this.”
He takes a handful of rags from the table, lifts Sherlock’s hat, sets them underneath, and then replaces the fez.
“Every medical man is marked by the sight of his stethoscope bulging under his hat.”
Sherlock smiles and doesn’t bother to object to this little, likely undet
ectable detail. But Bell’s other addition surprises him. He produces what looks like a horsewhip.
“This, my young friend, is a hunting crop. I was once told by a man who knew of what he spoke, that it is among the finest weapons that anyone can bear in self-defense. Hide it under your coat. If required, use it. It shall back any man away from you in an instant! Observe the wrist action.”
Bell snaps the stiff, three-foot long piece of leather into the air producing a frightening crack, then turns madly on another skeleton and wades into him – his first slash knocks the skull clean from its body and sends it smashing to the floor – three boney men down in one day. Bells smiles and hands the hard black weapon to Sherlock.
The boy imitates his teacher and slices the air with another magnificent cracking sound. He seems a natural. The apothecary nods.
But immediately there is a knock at the door. The two men look at each other and Bell motions for Sherlock to hide in the lab.
The boy peers around the entrance and watches the old man open the door carefully, assuming his wide stance, with hands raised near his chest, ready to strike.
But the man who comes through the door isn’t one he wants to attack.
Lord Redhorns blusters in.
“Did you receive the message which I gave your page?”
“Message?” asks Bell weakly.
“More than two days past, I informed him that you had four days in which to pay your rent or you would be summarily thrown into the streets. Do you have the funds now?”
“No, sir.” Bell looks warily back toward the lab.
“I shall be here tomorrow evening. If you do not hand me the sum the instant I arrive, I shall evict you then! Good evening, Mr. Bell.”
“Good evening, sir.”
The door closes and the apothecary stands still. When Sherlock comes out to him, he turns with a resplendent smile. “Did you hear that, my boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That man should go upon the stage! He is an actor whose impersonations are as marvelous as the great Macready! And a lunatic! He strolls about these parts, pretending to be a wealthy landlord! I have no idea who he really is!” Bell utters a crack of laughter.
“I know who he is, sir.”
“You do?” For the first time that Sherlock can remember, the old man allows sadness to show on his face.
“And I have a plan to save us from him.”
“Oh, something will turn up. I am a devotee of the science of alchemy, and of the sociological precepts of one Samuel Smiles. If one devotes oneself to bettering oneself, then life around one will always get better. And I am working on it as we speak!”
“There is a five hundred pound reward for the capture of the Brixton Gang.”
Bell is speechless.
“And I am going to get it.”
“I … I cannot allow this.”
“I shall do it without nearing them. I have a way. I shall not put myself in danger.”
“Do you promise, my boy?” There are tears in the old man’s eyes. “You will recall … a promise involves one’s honor. To break it is disgraceful.”
“I promise,” says Sherlock Holmes, “on my mother’s grave.”
The old man smiles and opens the front door, crouching behind so no one from the outside can see him.
“May the gods be with you, Master Holmes. Be careful and come back safely. We shall write up the evidence together, and take it to the police.”
Sherlock lied to Sigerson Bell. He is going to Rotherhithe to walk straight into the lair of the Brixton Gang.
From this moment forward there will be no looking back, regardless of the danger. You either fight evil or you don’t; you either get what you are after or lose it; there is nothing in between. He takes a deep breath and slips into the night.
THE ROTHERHITHE DEN
Sherlock Holmes takes a very long route to his destination. First, he heads straight north, then west, in the opposite direction he intends eventually to go, leading whoever might be following him on a wild-goose chase all the way up to Regent’s Park. In the dim lights and shadows of the elm trees in that huge green leisure area he sees packs of London’s poor: raggedly dressed, huddled together in groups for the night, their children wailing.
“A farthing, old sir, or just an ’alf?” begs one aged woman who approaches him on her knees, just wisps of dirty hair on her head, her face, burnt by the summer’s broiling sun, the color and texture of an old leather rugby ball.
He keeps moving, hearing the faint sounds of the caged animals crying in the park’s Zoological Gardens, rushes past the circles of exotic flowers planted by the Royal Botanical Society, and then plunges south, through Hyde Park, into wealthy Kensington and Chelsea, and all the way down to the river. There he passes by the lewd amusement grounds of The Cremorne Gardens where El Niño Farini first made his name in London, high in the night air. He can hear the Gardens even though he is a quarter-mile away: the swirling dance music on its outdoor stages, the dramatic sounds of a circus at its amphitheater, and the roiling crowds.
He looks up and sees a balloon, lit with gaslights, rising above the Gardens, just as roman candles explode all around it, lighting up the banks of the river for miles. The first bang makes Sherlock jump. Oh to be there!
But instead he crosses over Battersea Bridge and begins a long journey along the south bank of the Thames, back to the frightening desolation of Rotherhithe.
It doesn’t seem like anyone has been following him. In fact, he hasn’t sensed a trailer since he left the apothecary’s. Bell’s clothes are feeling heavy as he plods along on his gigantic detour. Certain that they aren’t needed anymore, and remembering that the old man had told him they were rags anyway, he slips under the bridge and frees himself of the overcoat, fez, and medical bag, tossing them into a large dustbin near the water. He starts off again, feeling lighter.
Despite lightening his load, he’s exhausted by the time he reaches the southern entrance of the Thames Tunnel. That isn’t good – he needs to be strong and alert. His face still aches from Grimsby’s blows. He struggles along Rotherhithe Street in the dark, his eyes searching for the Asphalte Works.
He spots them, smelling worse tonight, it seems, looking darker, their black chimneys blacker. And there are the crumbling warehouses.
He crouches against the broken-down wall of an abandoned soap factory and looks across wide Rotherhithe and down the much smaller, cobblestone street that runs away from it toward the river and past the warehouses. His first plan is to try to do as much of this as he can from a distance. If he is lucky, he’ll see Dante again, maybe talking to members of the Brixton Gang, hopefully doing something that gives away their identity.
But the luck that Sigerson Bell wished for him isn’t with him tonight.
He waits, and no one comes. The warehouses stay black and silent except for a dim light and distant, muffled sounds in the upstairs floor of the last one near the river.
He realizes how ridiculous it is to think that he can do anything from this far away, but how unprepared he is to do much more. He has no idea what even one member of the gang looks like and the belief that they would somehow do something that would give them away doesn’t make sense.
No, he has to go over there … right to the warehouses. There are times, his father used to say, even in the world of science, when you must gamble, when plans are not possible and nothing is certain. That’s when the word experiment really means what it says.
Sherlock has to experiment; and hope this doesn’t blow up in his face.
He rises and darts across Rotherhithe Street and onto the lane that fronts the desolate buildings. The sounds of his footsteps echo, and just like the night before, it seems there are many of them … more than his own. What a time, after all his precautions, to discover that he’s indeed being followed! But when he looks around, no one is in sight, ahead or behind. He keeps moving, close to the buildings, all his senses alert.
Just as
he suspected, there doesn’t appear to be anyone inside … except in that last one, where those faint sounds seem to be coming from. That building is so far from the main road, and close to the river, that raised voices in its inner sanctums can’t be clearly made out by passersby unless they are right up close.
Though it terrifies him to even contemplate, Sherlock realizes that he is going to have to enter the building. All the doors on the other warehouses are broken, and knocked in, but when he gets to this last one, he can see that its entrance is closed tightly. He slowly approaches it … very slowly … then stands with his back plastered against the dirty brick wall. No one inside can see him there, even if they look through the door’s little barred window or straight down from an upper floor. The sounds are indeed coming from this warehouse, somewhere upstairs. He gently nudges the thick wooden door with one hand.
It creaks open.
It must have been unlatched. That seems strange, in fact it doesn’t make sense, but he crouches down and slips inside anyway. Instantly, two small figures fly at him! They are black and oily, and scream. Crows. They swoop past his head and out into the night, crying out as if warning him. The muffled sounds from upstairs pause for a second … and then resume. Sherlock lies on the dirt floor, his heart pounding. Crows always have reasons for being places; they can sense impending death and how to profit from it. They understand evil, accept it as a part of life, especially when it is perpetrated by human beings, which is often. The crows know something is afoot in this broken-down place: the bloody Brixton Gang would be a perfect group of human beings for these clever birds to keep their eyes on.
Though it is dim in here, Sherlock can make out the room’s cluttered innards: monster coils of ropes for boats, long wood poles that look like pieces of masts, moldy sections of sails, and oily remnants of steam engines. It smells earthy, and like the river.
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